The Angel & the Auction
by QueenoftheDarned
Summary: In which a certain Mr. Fell is determined to get his hands on a rare book, Crowley has a job to do, and Nothing Goes As Planned. Also, Gabriel is a jerk, one of Newton Pulsifer's ancestors shows up, and a certain town in Surrey will never be the same again...
1. Snake on a Train

**The Angel & the Auction**

_June 1892_

_Somewhere in Surrey_

The early-morning train barrelled along the Brighton main line, belching smoke as it left the tangled city of London behind. No one on board had noticed that, somewhere between the outskirts of the city and Croydon, the train had picked up an extra passenger. Crowley hadn't been around for the genesis of steam travel, as he'd spent most of the century snoozing. Except that wasn't entirely true. If he were to be completely honest with himself, _sulking_ might have been more accurate.

He and Aziraphale had known each other for a long time - since the _beginning_ of time, nearly. They'd had tiffs before. The auction, however, had been different. Crowley didn't know if Twickenham would ever be the same again. But the angel had had plenty of time to cool off since then, or so he hoped. In any case, there was only one way to find out...

He expected Aziraphale to pointedly ignore him when he slipped into the train carriage. Instead, as he slid the door shut behind him and took a seat opposite, his friend raised an eyebrow at him over the top of his book, though not before marking his place with his finger.

"Finally tired of hibernating, dear boy?" he said mildly, and Crowley suddenly felt the need to stare out of the window.

"Thought I'd give you some time to miss me."

"Well, what do you think?" Aziraphale sounded amused, and when Crowley glanced back he realised the angel was talking about the train. He sniffed as his eyes travelled around the comfortable carriage.

"I'm still deciding," he said, though truthfully he was quite enjoying himself. It was almost _comfortable_, even though his knees kept bumping Aziraphale's whenever the train rocked, in a way that did foggy, unhelpful things to his concentration. He caught a glimpse of movement in the window of the carriage door as the ticket master looked inside, peered at the two of them and seemed to think better of disturbing them. Aziraphale turned his page and ignored Crowley's knowing look with practiced ease.

"I think it's all very ingenious," he said. "What _will_ humans think of next?"

"What's this?" Now it was Crowley's turn to quirk an eyebrow. "Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the East Gate, approving of progress?" If Aziraphale had noticed Crowley was poking fun at him, he didn't show it.

"Did you know they ride the train _for fun_?" he went on. "Not only to get from one place to another. I do love how their minds work."

"That's not what you said when they invented the guillotine." _That_ earned Crowley a sideways look. He chuckled and leaned back in his seat. So things were back to normal, after all.  
"How is the bookshop?" he enquired, steering the conversation back to safer waters, in case Aziraphale changed his mind and booted him out of the carriage window. His friend immediately perked up.

"It's all going splendidly. In fact, I'm on my way to an auction-" his eyes went wide as he trailed off, the memories of Twickenham flooding back. Crowley winced. He could practically still hear the screaming.

"Come again?" He'd heard perfectly well what Aziraphale had said. From the way the angel's brows knit together, he knew it, too.

"Crowley, I'm only going to say this once," he said slowly, with the patience of every saint who ever walked the earth combined. "Please, _please_, Do Not Try To Help Me Again."

A silence fell on the carriage. It settled into the nooks and crannies, made itself comfortable. Neither of them wanted to argue, not after they'd already spent a century not talking. Crowley chewed the inside of his lip and slumped back against the padded seat.

"I _could_ help," he said sullenly.

"That's very kind-"

"-_Don't_-"

"-Sorry, sorry, I forgot." Aziraphale's fingertips drummed quietly against the cover of his book. "I just… I really _would_ like to have this book. In my collection." A pause. "The honest way."

"Of course."

"It's nothing personal." Aziraphale looked as if he wanted to say more, but thought better of it. He stared at his book but didn't turn the page.

"Where is it?" asked Crowley eventually.

"Hmm?"

"The auction, Angel," Crowley repeated, trying not to sound as impatient as he felt. "So I don't _accidentally_ turn up and ruin everything," he added hurriedly as Aziraphale's expression darkened.

"It's in…" Aziraphale paused. Crowley nearly choked.

"Surely not," he crowed. "Could it be-?"

"Oh, stop it."

"It is, isn't it!" Aziraphale was _definitely_ contemplating tossing Crowley out of the window now. He sighed heavily.

"I suppose you think that's highly amusing."

"It is, a bit." Aziraphale glowered at him, but it was a perfunctory glower, with no real force behind it.

"Perhaps a little," he admitted with some reluctance. The whistle of the train and the smooth application of brakes made him look out of the window, where a station was sliding into view. A painted wooden sign on the ticket office read 'Horley'. There was a group of young boys on the platform waving at the train as it pulled up. Crowley ignored them.

"Well," said Aziraphale, "This is my stop." He stood and pulled a leather briefcase from the luggage rack above him. Crowley idly wondered if it was full of money, or more books in case Aziraphale got bored. (Probably both, he decided.)

"I think I'll stay on board for a bit longer."

"Brighton is lovely this time of year, you know. You ought to visit." Aziraphale told him. Crowley made a non-committal noise. "It was nice to see you, Crowley," said the angel pleasantly. "Toodle pip." He left Crowley to puzzle over that last remark, and a few moments later he could be seen hurrying down the platform, briefcase in hand and with his book tucked under his arm.

Crowley had never been much good at doing as he was told - one didn't vaguely saunter downwards by staying put and behaving oneself. But this auction seemed important to the angel, and he didn't fancy spending another century not talking to each other. Through the window he could make out Aziraphale hailing a hansom, by way of waving his hat in the air and trying to shout over the clamour of the station.

"This carriage is taken," he muttered as the door slid open behind him. When he didn't hear the expected apology and the sound of retreating footsteps, he turned to find a wizened old lady in a straw hat hobbling through the doorway. She tottered over to the seat opposite him and sat down heavily.  
"_Madam_," he said, reaching for his glasses and raising his voice so the old biddy could hear him, "This carriage is-"

"HELLO, CROWLEY," she said, in a voice like a thousand tortured souls crying out for mercy.

"Takehh-_Hastur_!" Crowley felt his face freeze into a kind of rictus grin. Behind it, his mind raced frantically.

_Fiery shits_, he thought, _how long has he been here_? Those thoughts gave way to an altogether more frightening one - _does he know Aziraphale was sitting in that exact spot five minutes ago?_

"I'VE GOT A JOB FOR YOU," said Hastur, shifting slightly in his seat as if something was bothering him. Crowley felt himself relax a little. Perhaps he wasn't about to get thrown in an eternal pit of brimstone after all.

"Oh?" he ventured.

"TAKE ONE GUESS WHERE."

"_Oh_." Crowley shut his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose._ Of course_. Across from him, the old dear was wriggling like there was a ferret trapped somewhere under the satin expanse of her skirts. Crowley stared.

"Erm." He frowned. "Everything alright?"

"THIS SEAT IS… ITCHY."

"Tell me about the job, then," Crowley said, before Hastur could elaborate. Still shuffling in his seat, the demon gleefully told him the details, and, with one last eye-wateringly specific threat about what would happen to Crowley should he fail, left the old woman's body. She slumped over in her seat, snoring faintly, her hat askew. Only the faint smell of brimstone lingered.

Crowley heaved a sigh and resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to choose between inciting the wrath of a host of powerful demons, or Aziraphale. On one hand, one would visit upon him all manner of miseries - but the other was a host of demons. With one last poisonous look at the sleeping woman, he unfolded his legs and made for the door. The train had already pulled away from the platform, but that wasn't about to stop Crowley. He had things to do, places to be.

Places like Crawley.

:o:o:o:

The village of Crawley was a two-hour carriage ride away, but Aziraphale didn't mind. He'd brought his book, after all, and the hansom driver seemed more than content not to engage the eccentric gentleman he'd picked up at Horley station.

Silverton Manor lay on the outskirts of Crawley. It was a Tudor-style manor nestled amid a rambling garden, its chimneys rising above the treetops. Aziraphale gazed happily out of the window as the carriage bumped its way up the twisting drive, the house coming into view. When they trundled to a stop, Aziraphale climbed out and looked around him at the courtyard in front of the house. Judging from the cluster of carriages, their drivers either tending their horses or making small talk amongst themselves, he was not the first to arrive. He wouldn't be the last, either.

He paid his driver and made his way across the courtyard. The house was a red-brick sentinel mantled with trailing ivy. To the humans who lived here, the place was old and grand, passed down from generation to loving generation. To Aziraphale, it was startlingly unlike the last time he'd been here - sometime in the 5th century, if he remembered correctly. The memories were a little fuzzy. There had been a lot more trees.

"Good morning!" a horribly familiar voice said from Aziraphale's side. His ichor ran cold.

"Gabriel!" he practically squeaked, turning to face the archangel with creeping dread. "How… how _nice_ to see you!" Gabriel smiled broadly in his usual way - it didn't quite reach his eyes - and clapped Aziraphale heartily on the shoulder.

"Good to see you out and about." Aziraphale wanted to say he got out and about quite enough, _thank you_, but that would have been the second lie in as many minutes.

"Um, yes, well." He straightened his bow tie with one hand, faintly aware that the handle of his briefcase was becoming slippery in the other. "It's not every day a book written by a forgotten saint is put up for auction. A golden opportunity, as it were."

"You'll destroy it yourself, of course."

"Quite, qui-" Aziraphale froze. "What?" He forced himself to meet Gabriel's steely gaze. "_Destroy_...?"

"The book. Destroy the book," Gabriel clarified.

"But - I mean - it's -" Aziraphale recoiled in horror. "It's by Griffilus the Nondescript," he said, his tone pleading. "It's the only known copy in existence."

"Which is why we can't risk just _anyone_ getting their hands on it, can we?"

"I… I suppose. Of course. Although… I don't suppose we could simply… lock it away?" Aziraphale was grasping at straws now. "In a very secure place?"

"Nothing's more secure than the righteous cleansing flame!" said Gabriel cheerfully. Aziraphale suppressed a sigh. He'd been _so_ looking forward to reading it.

"By the way," continued Gabriel, oblivious to Aziraphale's disappointment. "I have it on good authority the demon Crowley is on the move. If he's on his way here-"

"-He wouldn't _dare_," interrupted Aziraphale, before realising what he'd said. "He's far too afraid of us to set foot here," he amended quickly. "The last time I crossed paths with him, I made it perfectly clear what would happen if I caught him up to his old tricks again."

"Excellent!" Gabriel grinned broadly and slapped Aziraphale on the back. Aziraphale wished he'd stop doing that. "We can talk again later. Enjoy your auction!"

Of course, Gabriel could never have known, but a memory had jarred loose in the recesses of Aziraphale's mind. The smell of burning parchment and the feel of ash on his skin. The name _Alexandria_ settled on his tongue, heavy as lead and unpleasant as a dead fish. He shook his head as if to shake the sensation away. _That was a long time ago_, he told himself sternly. _Libraries burn. Books burn. It's a fact of life._

So why did the thought of destroying this book make him feel so ill?

:o:o:o:

The back garden of Silverton Manor was an expanse of green lawn that stretched from the house to a neat line of trees at the far end, where it gave way to a forest. It was on this lawn the auction would take place, and rows of chairs had already been set up by the estate's hard-working servants. This was a select auction, strictly by invite from Master Silverton only. That never stopped some of England's more eccentric collectors from turning up uninvited, but Silverton's servants had put out a few extra chairs just in case.

One of these uninvited guests had just arrived, not by carriage, but by skulking through the trees and onto the lawn, where he immediately pretended he had been present all along. No one questioned him, even though he wore no hat and his coat was on the far side of shabby. In fact, no one even asked the gangly, serious-faced lad his name, for fear of committing an unforgivable social faux pas.

They needn't have worried. His name was Solomon Pulsifer, and he was a thief.

He hadn't always been a thief. In fact, he'd never actually stolen anything in his life. But that was all meant to change this afternoon, with any luck. He didn't hold out much hope; luck was something that happened to other people. If he had luck, he wouldn't be here mingling with England's finest collection of people with more money than sense.

No, Solomon Pulsifer's life had been plagued with the same ill fortune as his father (and his father's father, and his father's father's… father). His mother had once remarked that one of his ancestors must have vexed a witch. Solomon didn't believe in witches. He did believe in debt collectors. A particularly nasty one had broken down his front door that very morning, promising many unpleasantries in the near future if certain arrears were not resolved.

"Mister Brimble's not too happy with you, me lad," the man had said, stepping over the wreckage of Solomon's door. He was shorter than the boy (that wasn't unusual), but built like a boulder. He could probably have curled one meaty hand around Solomon's neck. "Lucky for you, 'e's a generous man what believes in second chances an' all. 'E's got a little job for you, an' if you pull it off, 'e's willing to forget all about the money you owe 'im…"

Eager to keep his extremities intact, Solomon had foolishly agreed to the job before the thug told him about the auction. Whatever he'd been expecting, it certainly wasn't to be sent after a musty old book by some long-dead saint. Still, if it was all that stood between him and whatever Mister Brimble had in store for him...

Solomon shivered despite the warm summer sunshine. He _needed_ that book.

:o:o:o:

_A/N: I'm not saying Twickenham and Crawley aren't both hotbeds of demonic activity. But I'm not NOT saying they aren't hotbeds of demonic activity.  
__By the by, this will probably be two or three chapters long, maybe longer depending how much of a walking disaster Aziraphale and Crowley are._


	2. The Pulsifer Misfortune

**Chapter 2: The Pulsifer Misfortune**

Charles Silverton was a fussy little bachelor who Aziraphale liked immensely. They'd met in London, on one of the rare occasions Aziraphale's bookshop was open for business. Eccentric and mildly unsociable, Silverton's rare interactions with society usually involved the exchange of large sums of money or items that ought to have been in museums.

Today though, as Silverton greeted Aziraphale warmly and led him through the house to the garden, where the auction was to take place, the angel was still thinking about his conversation with Gabriel. A servant came round bearing a tray of savouries, but for once he had no appetite. Silverton trailed off in the middle of making an unkind observation about one of the other guests and looked at him with something approaching concern.

"I say, old fellow. Are you quite alright?"

"Oh, yes. Of course." Aziraphale forced a smile. He had to do that a lot when Gabriel was around, he'd noticed. "It's been a long trip from London, that's all." Silverton clucked with sympathy.

"Why don't we retire to my library? We've got-" he checked his pocket watch - "at least half an hour before the auction is due to start. Come now," he added with a chuckle, when Aziraphale hesitated. "I won't let you miss the start. There's brandy upstairs, and I know you have a _professional_ interest in my collection." Ah, there it was - the glint in his eye suggested Silverton was eager to show off his library.

"Ah, you know me too well."

"I know _books_," Silverton corrected. "I know how they draw you in. Follow me."

As soon as Aziraphale stepped into the library, his worries about Gabriel and the auction melted away. It was a sanctuary, thick with the kind of silence you only get in a room stuffed with books. It somehow managed to be both spacious and cosy, and Aziraphale looked around him with a mixture of appreciation and envy. It put his cramped little bookshop to shame. (The shop's unwelcoming atmosphere was a necessary evil - if he made it too comfortable, people might actually want to _buy_ something.)

While Silverton set to pouring himself and Aziraphale a generous helping of brandy, the angel sank into a padded armchair. He gently set his briefcase on the floor beside him and his book on his lap.

"_The Time Machine_," Silverton noted with evident surprise, eyeing the spine as he passed Aziraphale his drink. "Scientific Romance, eh? Isn't that… well, forgive me, _beneath_ you?"

"Not at all, my dear fellow!" for the first time since his conversation with Gabriel, Aziraphale's eyes lit up. "The human imagination is most fascinating! I, for one, am eager to see what they- er, _we_\- will think of next." Silverton was looking at him strangely, and Aziraphale felt his face redden. "It's rather good," he finished.

Silverton settled back in his chair, regarding him over the lip of his glass.  
"I wouldn't normally tell you this, Fell," he said, "but I like you. You appreciate books for the treasures they are." Aziraphale sipped his brandy guiltily. If only Silverton knew... "Between us," the man went on, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "if you're bidding for the Tome of Saint Griffilus, you're likely to come up against Ms. Ashworth. She'll bid aggressively to start with, but don't let her fluster you."

Aziraphale tried not to stare, but his heart beat a little faster. Silverton _really_ wasn't supposed to be telling him this, but if it meant the difference between winning or losing the auction...  
"Do you think there will be much competition?" he asked, keeping his voice light. Silverton snorted.

"Who knows? It's drawn a few uninvited guests, that's for sure. Devil knows what might happen."

:o:o:o:

Solomon stalked the hallways of the manor with no idea of where he was going. The building was sprawling and cast in shadow after the glare of the sun outside. A couple of times he had to duck into doorways or behind furniture to avoid roving servants. The whole business made the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably, as if he was being watched. There would be no second chance if he got caught - if he was lucky he'd be thrown off the estate, and if he was _unlucky_ he'd end up in a dirty prison cell. Shame sat hot and heavy in his belly.

_If I ever get out of this mess_, he promised himself, _I'll never steal anything again. And I'll never get back into debt, either._

A few minutes later he stumbled, quite by accident, across a secluded hall in a lesser-used wing of the house. Someone had helpfully hung a NO ENTRY sign on one door, and Solomon felt a spark of hope. This had to be where they were keeping the items that were going up for auction.

The door was locked - he'd been expecting that - but when he knelt and pressed his face against the keyhole he could see the room was stacked high with boxes and crates, and other items packed carefully in straw and paper. Now all he had to do was get inside.

He pulled from his coat pocket the set of lock picks Brimble's man had given him, and with shaking hands selected one at random. He had no idea how to pick a lock. He'd read plenty of penny dreadfuls, but they were all frustratingly vague when it came to details. He grit his teeth and eased the pick into the lock. There was nothing for it; he'd have to learn - and quickly.

Someone behind him cleared their throat, and Solomon shot to his feet with a yelp. Behind him was a rake-thin man, dressed in black and leaning against the wall like a shadow that had grown a face. That face was looking at him with an unreadable expression, made all the more inscrutable by a pair of dark glasses.

"I was just-" Solomon's blood fizzed with shock. He'd forgotten that he'd left his lock pick in the door. It slipped out of the lock and tumbled to the carpet, where it lay glinting accusingly up at him. He dimly registered it as he stared at the man. "This isn't what it looks like."

"It _looks_ like you have no idea what you're doing," The stranger remarked. There was something _off_ about him, Solomon thought, eyeing him warily. "Lock picks aren't keys, you're supposed to use a tension wrench…" the stranger must have realised he'd lost Solomon completely, because he trailed off with a sigh.

"You're not supposed to be here either, are you?" ventured Solomon, when he'd regained the use of his facial muscles. "Otherwise you'd have called for Silverton and his servants by now." The stranger's lips twitched infinitesimally upwards. "What now, then? Do I have to fight you?" At that, the stranger threw his head back and laughed. Solomon felt his face burning with embarrassment.

"No, you don't have to fight me." The man wiped away a tear, and Solomon thought he caught a flash of yellow behind those glasses of his. "Listen, er-"

"Solomon." the boy practically heard the man's eyes roll.

"_Solomon_. I've got a better idea. Let's make a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"If I open this door, you can take whatever it is you're after and forget you saw me. In return, you can get on with… whatever it is you do when you're not mangling innocent locks."

"And what do _you_ get out of this?" Solomon couldn't help the edge of suspicion that crept into his voice.

"Nothing you'd be interested in, I'm sure." The man made a show of inspecting his fingernails. They were black, Solomon noticed, and pointed. Like claws. The feeling that there was something not quite right about the man deepened. "Just an old book."

"I see." Solomon's heart sank. "The Tome of Saint Griffilus the Nondescript." The stranger arched an eyebrow.

"Ah," he said, understanding. "That's unfortunate."

"You don't understand," said Solomon, clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides. He was on the verge of tears. "If I don't get this book-"

"Oh, I think I _do_. Trust me; my employers are a lot less understanding than yours."

"I doubt that," Solomon muttered under his breath. The man opened his mouth to give a searing reply, but footsteps suddenly sounded along the hall, making him freeze.

"_Quick_," hissed the stranger, and before Solomon could react, lunged for a door on the opposite side of the hallway, wrenched it open and pulled the boy in after him. He shut it just as whoever the footsteps belonged to rounded the corner. There was a brief, silent altercation as they fought for the keyhole, which the man won.

"Bloody, blistering _bollocks_." The venom in the man's whisper made Solomon shrink away. "We're too late."

:o:o:o:

More rude words flittered through Crowley's head as he peered through the keyhole. Silverton's stony-faced butler (who Crowley had snuck past on his way in) and another man - presumably the auctioneer - were standing outside the room they'd been trying to get into.

"Old Griffilus is virtually unspoken of in the church. A false saint, they call him. Most unusual." the auctioneer's words were punctuated by the click of a key in the lock. "Here's the _really_ fascinating thing, though," he continued in his nasal voice, "the last copy was supposed to have been lost in the tragedy at Twickenham about a hundred years ago." The butler made the singularly most disinterested noise Crowley had ever heard as they disappeared into the room.

If Hastur were here, he'd crush the souls from the men and be long gone before their bodies, heaped on the ground, had grown cold. Hastur _wasn't_ here, though, and Crowley didn't much feel like murdering two people in cold blood in front of the strange, pasty boy he'd found in the hallway. (It wasn't that he was _too nice_ or anything. He just didn't like killing in front of an audience. Yes. That was it.)

A metallic glint suddenly caught Crowley's eye, and his breath hitched in his throat. The boy's lock pick still lay on the carpet, inches from where the butler had been standing only seconds before. If the men chanced to look down as they came out of the room... Crowley didn't have time to finish that thought, as the two men reappeared, the auctioneer still endlessly talking.

"Everything seems to be ready," he was saying. Crowley ignored him and concentrated on the butler, who was certainly the keener-eyed of the pair. If he could keep the man distracted - but it was too late. The butler froze, then bent down to examine the metallic object on the ground. The auctioneer, seeing what he was holding, gave a bark of alarm.

"Hoy! There's a _thief_ in this house!"

Crowley didn't stick around to hear what happened next. He grabbed Solomon's collar and in two bounding steps flew to the closest window and threw it open (this particular window had been latched, but that sort of thing never posed much of a problem for Crowley. Or any demon, for that matter). He clambered over the sill and, dragging the poor boy after him, dropped onto the flowerbed below. As silently as they could, they slipped around the side of the house to find themselves at the far end of the courtyard. There, they dropped to the ground behind an unattended carriage. Crowley seized the boy's lapels and shook him.

"You _idiot_," he hissed furiously. He was starting to rethink his stance on murder. Solomon wriggled free, his eyes like saucers.

"_Your tongue_!" Crowley groaned and pushed him aside, clambering to his feet.

"Bloody brilliant." He began to pace, throwing his arms up in frustration. "Eighty-nine years of blissful sleep and suddenly it's possessed old biddies, incompetent burglars and a job no-one else in Hell wants to _bloody_ do!" His glasses had gone askew, Solomon noticed, beginning to tremble. His eyes were yellow. Crowley finally seemed to remember himself, and stared down at the boy, nostrils flaring.  
"You didn't hear that," he said after a long pause.

"What am I going to do?" Solomon hugged his knees. Crowley stared down at him and sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said heavily, and the boy wiped his nose on his sleeve and glared up at him.

"For distracting me and ruining everything, dooming me to a slow and painful death at the hands of Brimble's debt collectors?" he snapped.

Crowley grimaced. "Not exactly."

"Then for what?"

"For this." Crowley lunged forward and grabbed Solomon by his collar, dragging him into the courtyard despite his futile struggles. "OI, I GOT HIM," he bellowed, drowning out the boy's protests. "I CAUGHT THE THIEF!"

:o:o:o:

Everything flew into chaos after that. Solomon wasn't sure _how_, but in the blink of an eye the stranger-who-wasn't-quite-human had tied him to the luggage rack of a carriage. He'd even gagged him with his own necktie. If Solomon hadn't been terrified, he'd have found the whole thing humiliating.

A few minutes later the entire household, guests included, came flooding out into the courtyard and were staring up at him, exchanging horrified whispers. Silverton came marching out of the house, red-faced and huffing crossly.

"What is the meaning of all this?" he bellowed. "Why is there a boy tied to the roof of a carriage? Who does he belong to?" No one dared answer, but the stony-faced butler stepped forward and wordlessly proceeded to untie Solomon.

"Your man here found a lock pick lying in the hallway!" The auctioneer was hovering at Silverton's shoulder, bursting with excitement. "Seems this young ruffian was trying to make off with the goods before the auction starts!"

"No, you don't understand!" Solomon said, as soon as the butler pulled his necktie from his mouth. The silent man reached a hand into Solomon's coat pocket and withdrew the roll of lock picks with an air of satisfaction. A ripple ran through the crowd as he held them up. Silverton sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"This is what I get for not enforcing the guest list," he muttered. He turned to the butler. "Take the boy upstairs, and make sure he keeps his sticky fingers to himself. And send for someone from Crawley to come and fetch him."

"I'm not a thief!" Solomon garbled desperately, "It was _him_-" he whipped around to point out the stranger, but there was no sign of him. The man had disappeared. Already the butler was shaking his head and hauling him towards the house. "There was a man!" Solomon wailed, "With yellow eyes and a tongue like a snake!"

"The poor boy's mad," someone whispered loudly. Solomon shrank under the weight of the crowd's stares, until his eyes fell on a man in a cream-coloured suit, clutching a briefcase and watching him with the strangest expression on his face.

"You!" Solomon gasped, digging his heels into the ground and leaning towards the man. The butler grunted and tightened his grip. "You believe me, don't you?" As if sensing he was drawing the attention of the crowd, the man cleared his throat uncomfortably, but before he could reply the butler yanked Solomon away.

_The Pulsifer misfortune strikes again_, Solomon thought miserably as he struggled in vain against the butler's vice-like grip. Dimly, he could sense the eyes of the cream-suited gentleman on him as he was dragged up the stairs and into the house.

:o:o:o:


	3. An Auction to Remember

**Chapter Three: An Auction to Remember**

Crowley stood outside the locked room where the auction goods were being kept, straining his ears for footsteps or voices. The house was quiet. Silverton and his guests had relocated back to the garden, and a few minutes ago Crowley had heard the butler dragging Solomon upstairs, the boy's protests growing muffled before fading entirely. Judging by the slam of a door that followed, he'd been locked up until someone could be sent to fetch help from Crawley.

Satisfied no one was going to catch him in the act, Crowley snapped his fingers at the door, and heard the click of the lock. The door swung open, and Crowley slipped inside - and immediately came face-to-face with a fuming Aziraphale.

"I should have known!" If looks could kill, Crowley would have had an awkward time explaining to the lower-downs how he'd managed to get discorporated. As it was, he quailed under Aziraphale's glare. "I should have _known_ that boy was talking about you!"

"Angel-"

"Don't you '_angel_' me! You said you were going to Brighton!"

"I never said that." Crowley folded his arms. Aziraphale mirrored the gesture. "_You_ said I should go to Brighton."

"So why are you _here_?"

"I didn't have a _choice_!" Crowley snarled. "Hastur sent me here, and now that boy's made a mess of things, and it's all because of that bloody book!" Aziraphale gaped at him. His eyes slid over the piles of wrapped antiques that surrounded them and lingered for a second on a paper-wrapped parcel nestled in a straw-stuffed crate. He noticed Crowley following his gaze and shifted his body slightly to block the demon's view.

"Really, Crowley. This is too much! As if today hasn't been difficult enough, with Gabriel showing up out of the blue..."

"He what?" Crowley stiffened and looked around, as if Gabriel might be lurking somewhere nearby. The archangel was built less for stealth and more for classical Greek statuary, but a demon couldn't be too careful. Aziraphale seemed not to notice his discomfort.

"He told me to burn it to stop it from falling into human hands." The angel's expression was pained, and Crowley knew he was thinking about Alexandria. "I can't say I understand, but orders are - _why_ are you making that face?" He watched with alarm as Crowley's mouth stretched in a grin.

"Hastur ordered me to find out what Gabriel wants with that book," said Crowley, "and to make sure it doesn't happen." He let that sink in for a moment.

"You mean…" Realisation dawned. Aziraphale was caught perfectly between admiration and horror. Then his face clouded over. "I have to thwart you, you know."

"You caught me, didn't you?"

"Yes, I suppose I did."

"Well then."

"Right."

There was a moment of significance in which nothing was said but everything was understood. Aziraphale clasped his hands together.

"I suppose we'd better go. Before they start fetching things for the auction."

"Of course." Crowley slunk back into the hallway. Aziraphale followed and carefully miracled the lock behind him, and together they made their way back down the hallway.

"Crowley," Aziraphale began, his footsteps faltering. He clutched his briefcase to his chest and opened and shut his mouth a couple of times. "Try not to get caught," he said at last.

_Who do you think I am?_ Crowley wanted to scoff. Instead, he turned and loped away,

:o:o:o:

Solomon Pulsifer was well and truly trapped.

The butler had shut him in a spare room on the upper floor of the house. The only furniture was heavy and too ungainly to move, stacked haphazardly in piles. There were windows, but they were stiff with disuse and only opened enough for him to stick a hand through. Besides, the walls of the house were sheer brick, and there was no way the trailing ivy would bear his weight. He'd even poked his head into the unlit fireplace and looked up the chimney, although that was more for something to do than because he thought it would offer him a means of escape. His explorations had firmly established that the only way out of this room was locked, and the key was in the butler's pocket.

So when the door slammed open and the yellow-eyed stranger barged in, the only reasonable response was to shriek, trip over the edge of the carpet and fall on his backside.

"Good news!" the stranger announced, throwing his arms out like a demented preacher. "I've got a job for you!"

"Stay away from me." Solomon's voice trembled. "I - I don't know who or _what_ you are, but-"

"Yes, yes, I get that a lot," the man interrupted, "But we're running short on time." He held out a black-nailed hand and pulled Solomon to his feet. "I have a… _friend_ with enough money to pay off your debts, if you help me get that book. _Trust_ me," he wheedled, when Solomon stared at him incredulously.

"Trust _you_?" Solomon drew himself up to his full height. So did the stranger. The effect was like two aggressive concertinas unfolding. "You sold me out!"

The man scoffed at him. "You would have gotten caught anyway." Solomon had to admit he was probably right, but he glared at the stranger for a bit longer anyway, to make a point. "So what's it to be? Join me, or sit here and wait for the coppers to show up?"

"I don't even know your name."

"It's Crowley," said the man impatiently. "Happy now? Yes? Let's get moving." He didn't wait for an answer, but spun on his heel and strode out of the room, beckoning over his shoulder for Solomon to follow.  
"I'm going to need you to find a couple of things for me," he continued. He listed them, but Solomon was only half listening.

He hesitated in the doorway. The stranger - Crowley - wasn't looking. He could try to make a break for it. He might even make it out the front door before the man realised.

But what then? He'd be stuck with no money, no book, and a long walk home, where Brimble's thugs would be waiting for him.

He swallowed nervously and hurried to catch up. To his surprise, Crowley passed the stairs without turning, instead carrying on down the hallway.

"Where are you going?" asked Solomon.

"To the library."

:o:o:o:

One by one the chairs on the lawn filled up as the guests gathered for the auction. Charles Silverton had taken pains to assure everyone that nothing had actually been stolen, and that business should go on as usual. If anything, everyone seemed even more eager to take part, the excitement merely another eccentricity of Silverton's for them to gossip about later. Aziraphale had even heard one (slightly tipsy) gentleman suggest to his companions that Silverton had organised the whole thing as an elaborate hoax, and the thief was actually a local lad who'd jumped at the chance to earn a few shillings.

Aziraphale took a seat across the aisle from Miss Ashworth, the lady Silverton had mentioned as his main competition. She was a tiny woman with a severe face and a razor-sharp tongue, who seemed to take pleasure in intimidating everyone she came across. Aziraphale had to grudgingly admit he quite liked her. Still, he wasn't about to let her ruin everything. He kept one eye on her as the auctioneer stepped up to his podium.

The auctioneer's patter was as incessant, much like his usual mode of conversation. One by one, items were brought forth from the house. His enthusiasm was matched by the crowd's - they raucously shouted their bids, punctuated by the banging of his gavel as each item sold. Aziraphale kept silent. There was only one item he was interested in.

Some time later a solid-looking oaken chest was carried out, the two servants carrying it nearly bent double with the effort. Aziraphale didn't pay them much mind as they placed it down heavily on the grass - his eyes were fixed on the table beside it, on which sat a familiar object wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

A scream split the air, followed by a crash from the direction of the house. The crowd turned as one to see a servant girl come running out of the house with tea spilled down her front.

"What on earth is the matter with you?" snapped Silverton, rising from his seat and making his way over to her. His butler got there first, smoothly intercepting the woman. She clutched at him, trembling.

"There was - I saw - there was something in the kitchen!" She pointed a shaking finger at the house. "Something _horrible!_"

"For god's sake, woman! Pull yourself together!" Silverton caught his butler's eye. "Take her back inside," he ordered. "Tell her to go and lie down. And…" he hesitated. "Check the kitchen." The butler nodded curtly and, gently but firmly, steered the terrified woman away.

As they walked back to the house, Aziraphale was sure he heard her saying "It had _scales_!"

"Kindly carry on," Silverton said to the auctioneer. The man blinked at him from behind his podium.

"Er, are you sure-?"

"Sir, _if you would_." Silverton's voice brooked no argument, and with one last uneasy glance at the house, the auctioneer smiled weakly and reached for the next item. It was, Aziraphale noted with relief, the book.

"Ah," said the auctioneer, slipping back into his patter with visible effort. "Now _here's_ an item I know some of you will have been waiting for!" An audible titter ran through the crowd as the ruthless Miss Ashworth sat up straighter in her seat.

"The last remaining copy in the world, rumoured to be the writings of-" the auctioneer lowered his voice. Aziraphale had to admire the man's theatricality. "A _forgotten saint_." He paused for effect. "Of course, many would say it's the ramblings of a madman, but others say dear old Griffilus was real, stripped of his sainthood by the Church," he picked up the book and, to Aziraphale's horror, ostentatiously began unwrapping the paper.

"Oh, well done," Miss Ashworth muttered. "Yes, go on, expose it to sunlight, why don't you…" The auctioneer ignored her.

"The whole thing is in archaic Latin, of course, so it's all Greek to me!" He chuckled at his own joke. The paper fell away, and the auctioneer froze.

"Is this some kind of joke?" he said, holding up the book. A ripple of gasps went through the crowd, and a hint of nervous laughter. It wasn't the Tome of Saint Griffilus at all. He was clutching a copy of _Venus in Furs_.

Somewhere near the back of the crowd, a wraithlike silver-haired man shot to his feet.

"Wha- what in God's name is this?" he demanded in a brittle voice. He pointed at a scarlet-faced Silverton, who was staring at the auctioneer with bulging eyes. "You assured me the thief was taken care of, sir!" Silverton let out a strangled noise. "Well?" prompted the gentleman. He gestured to the auctioneer, who had hastily put down the offending book and was surreptitiously wiping his hands on his trousers. "_Where is my book_?"

_Oh no_, thought Aziraphale, as other guests who had brought their valuables with them to sell began to nod and mutter in agreement.

"I assure you, sir, this is all a misunderstanding-" Silverton's weak protests were drowned out as more guests joined in with their own protests. The auction was on the brink of turning into a riot.

It was high time, Aziraphale decided, to beat a hasty retreat.

:o:o:o:

Solomon clutched the paper-wrapped book tightly and waited for the sickening lurch of the chest to stop. After what seemed like forever, the servants set it down with a bone-rattling thump. He waited a few moments until he was sure they were gone before he dared sit up, pushing against the heavy lid. Fresh air flooded in, and Crowley looked down at him with an expression of triumph.

"Excellent work," he said, and Solomon allowed himself a shaky smile. _He'd done it_. He'd actually stolen something. Crowley held out a hand, but Solomon shook his head and hugged the book closer to his chest.

"Not until you pay me," he said. "I'm no fool."

"Fine," said Crowley peevishly. "We'll just have to wait for my associa-" He trailed off as the door of the room swung open.

The butler was already tall, but now he seemed to swell, his feet skimming the floor as if some invisible force bore him aloft. His eyes were solid black, as he fixed Crowley with a look full of malevolence. The room suddenly felt very small. He moved his jaw from side to side, as if testing it.

"THERE YOU ARE," he said, though his voice was horribly familiar - at least, it was to Crowley. His lips stretched in a ghastly smile. "I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU."

"_Hastur_," Crowley said, drawing back despite himself. The butler's head swiveled as Hastur took in the cramped space.

"DID YOU GET THE BOOK?"

Crowley reached behind him towards the chest. "It's right-"

The book was gone.

So was Solomon.

Crowley swore profusely. He'd only looked away for a second.

"CROWLEY…" Hastur's voice rumbled ominously. The smell of brimstone and ash swept through the room. Crowley thought quickly.

"Well, I think it's safe to say Gabriel won't be too pleased about that," he said hopefully. The butler's expression didn't waver. "_What_?" Crowley protested. "You said to make sure Gabriel didn't get what he wanted! He was going to _burn_ the bloody thing!"

"DON'T THINK I WON'T INFORM THE OTHERS OF YOUR INCOMPETENCE." The sound of crackling reached Crowley's ears. And… was that _smoke_ he could smell?

"Uh, Hastur-"

"GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, OR GET YOURSELF DISCORPORATED." Hastur chuckled unpleasantly, and the butler's face twisted. "YOUR CHOICE." Crowley didn't need to be told twice. He scooted away with as much dignity as he could muster, as the first tendrils of smoke began to curl its way down the hall.

:o:o:o:

Solomon's stolen carriage careened down the bumpy, winding road to Crawley. It lurched and shook violently, but if anything, he shook the reigns harder, urging the horses on. Where he ended up wasn't important - as long as it was far, _far_ away from Silverton Manor, with its ridiculous auctions, double-crossing snake-eyed strangers and, most of all, _that terrifying butler._ Brimble be damned, he thought bitterly. God himself couldn't persuade him to set foot back in that place. He'd pawn off the book, start a new life somewhere. Brighton was lovely at this time of year.

There was a loud snap and a whinny of protest from the horses as the carriage jolted sideways, crunching to a halt. Solomon grabbed the side of the driver's seat just in time to stop himself flying headfirst into the road. Once he'd recovered from the shock he hopped down and did a quick circuit of the carriage. The front axle had broken. He wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

Instead, he sighed heavily and resigned himself to a long walk. He reached into the carriage and withdrew the book, still wrapped, tucking it under his arm. With one last fearful glance behind him, he set off down the road.

:o:o:o:

The manor was on fire.

Aziraphale wasn't quite sure how that had happened, but standing beside him amongst the trees was a very sheepish-looking Crowley. He'd lost his glasses, and the rising flames were reflected in his serpentine eyes.

"I don't suppose an apology is going to help," Crowley said slowly, his gaze fixed on the catastrophe unfolding in front of him.

"I think it will take a little more than that to make it up to Silverton." (At least poor Charles would, once the fire was out, find his beloved library miraculously unharmed - it was the least Aziraphale could do, he thought.) Crowley turned his head and gave Aziraphale a long, hard look.

"I'm not talking about the manor, Angel."

"Oh." Aziraphale coughed and shuffled his feet.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry about the book."

"Crowley..." Aziraphale chewed his bottom lip. "You don't need to apologise."

"Oh, don't do the forgiveness thing, you'll make me feel worse," groaned Crowley. Aziraphale just looked pointedly at the briefcase sitting at his feet. It took Crowley far too long to realise what his friend was getting at. An incredulous laugh bubbled its way out of his throat. "Angel, you _didn't-"_

"Yes - shhh, someone will hear you! - I had a sudden flash of inspiration, you might say." Aziraphale seemed so pleased with himself Crowley thought he might burst.

"How? _When?"_

"As soon as I realised you were skulking around." Aziraphale's expression turned coy. "I didn't know what you were up to, you see. I know you thought you were being terribly clever," he added gently, seeing Crowley shaking his head. "But I'm afraid it doesn't take a genius to notice that books all look pretty much the same when they're wrapped in paper." _That_ stung, but Crowley decided to let that little jab slide.

"So the boy…"

"...has a lovely new copy of H.G. Wells' _The Time Machine_," the angel finished for him. "It's a pity," he sighed. "I'd almost finished it, too."

"You," said Crowley, leaning closer and drawing the words out to savour them, "are a _bastard_." They shared a quiet chuckle and watched as people ran for their carriages. Some of the drivers had already fled.

"So much for obtaining the book by honest means," Aziraphale sighed. "What a mess."

As if in answer, one window exploded outwards, littering the flowerbeds with shards of glass, then another.

"Still, not as bad as Twickenham," said Crowley.

:o:o:o:

"What are you going to tell Gabriel?"

They were sitting in a London-bound train carriage, a little sooty and exhausted, but in good spirits. For a while. Crowley contented himself to gaze out of the window, half listening as Aziraphale happily nattered on. He couldn't quite suppress his concern, however.

Aziraphale considered for a moment. "Well, I'll have to make an official report. I suppose he'll be pleased to hear the book was fortuitously consumed in the fire, never again to fall into human hands." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And what will you do, Crowley? I imagine the lords of Hell won't be too happy with you."

"I think I'll stay here on earth for a while," said Crowley. "Give them some time to cool off."

"Oh, you'll be staying in London, then?" Did the angel sound pleased, or was Crowley imagining things? "You and I must have luncheon some time. I know a delightful tea shop on Brewer Street…" he was off again, telling Crowley all about the things he'd missed while he'd been 'sleeping'. Crowley leaned back and shut his eyes, and let Aziraphale's voice wash over him.

The sun dipped behind the smoke stacks when they finally arrived in London. When they reached his stop, Aziraphale reluctantly got to his feet as the train slid into the platform.

"Well, this is my stop," he said, for the second time that day. "Drop by the bookshop some time. If you like."

"Maybe I will."

"Good." Aziraphale was a little flustered as he reached for the door. Crowley was sure he wasn't imagining _that_.

"Angel." Aziraphale hesitated in the doorway. "You forgot your briefcase." The angel's look of confusion melted into a smile as Crowley took it from the luggage rack and passed it to him.

Crowley quite liked the train, he decided, watching the station fall away, the carriage rocking as the engine picked up speed. Of course, he would enjoy it a lot more if it wasn't stuck on rails, he thought. If it could go wherever he chose, well, wouldn't that be something?

He stayed on for one more stop, enjoying the novelty of it all for a while longer, then at the next station he unfolded his legs and went to disembark.

A wall of noise and smoke assaulted him as he stepped onto the platform. Amongst the passengers scrambling to get on and off the train, there were porters with trolleys and boys hawking papers and magazines to passers-by. He turned up his collar, wincing at the shriek of the conductor's whistle as it pierced the clamour, but as he hurried past the paper boys, one caught his eye.

"_The Strand_, eh?" He didn't know whether Aziraphale's influence was rubbing off on him, or if it was simply on a whim, but he tossed the grubby boy a sixpence and took a copy. With one last, lingering look at the metal behemoth as it puffed away down the line, Crowley tucked his purchase under his arm and sauntered down the platform.


End file.
